A Hundred Ways To Look At You
by Albino Magpie
Summary: Russia, in one-hundred times fifty words.
1. 1 to 10

**A/N: **The first ten of 100 fifty-word stories all related to Russia. The 100-themes-challenge is an interesting thing to do, and Russia is such a darling I decided to fill it out for him. Pairings are pretty much Russia/anyone, but if it isn't stated clearly, assume whoever you like.

--

**1. Introduction**

That they should be introduced to each other like this is terribly embarassing.  
He stammers an apology, feeling silly and inadequate next to this rail-thin, graceful creature covered in embroidered silk from collar to ankles.  
"I think I will have to keep an eye on you, Rossija." China says.

**2. Love**

Do you think that there is no heart in my chest and no soul behind my eyes?  
Do you think me incapable of love?  
As long as I have any breath left in me, I _will _love.

I destroy those who I love, and I love those who destroy me.

**3. Light**

There is light.  
It shows everything for what it is.  
It shows that his people's shoulders strain and their knees buckle and they curse him, themselves, fate. It shows their malnutrition. It shows that they do not have anything left.

Does it show the thoughts of revolution in their heads?

**4. Dark**

There is darkness.  
Every crevice is filled with it, and it blocks everything out. No keyhole, no window, no crack in the wall to let in a sliver of light. Nothing.  
It has an upside.

He does not have to close his eyes to pretend he is in a palace.

**5. Seeking Solace**

There are walls of books all around him, dusty curtains blocking out the world, the smell of paper and leather. He curls up in front of the fireplace with an old volume, seeking comfort in his own thoughts written down, as bitter-sweet poetry.

Thoughts he didn't know he had.

**6. Break Away**

Something is crumbling, being torn away and apart by too many hands, all over him, breaking off bits and pieces and claiming (reclaiming?) them as their own.  
It hurts, but the pain makes him feel free, _he is free again_.  
He is breaking away even as he is broken apart.

**7. Heaven**

Russia has lost his Heaven.

If he does not believe in it, he will never reach it.

But if he doesn't believe in it, what does he care that it is gone?

What does he care for a delusion, something made to control malleable minds?

Hell is gone as well.

**8. Innocence**

It is gone, gone, gone and will never return, and if he clutches onto flowers and ruffles and laces and thin white limbs, it's not because he wants to destroy their innocence, he only wants to reclaim a little piece of his own that he has lost an eternity ago.

**9. Drive**

The engine sputters and dies for the third time today. It's barely even noon.

The road stretches before him – he'll just have to push. He's thankful for his gloves when he sets both palms flat against the rear window.

_Maybe I really ought to have heating installed in the glass._

**10. Breathe Again**

The air feels colder than ever, his coat is missing and the wind cuts, sharp, but there's something around him, humming like electricity, millions of minds that are _his_, all his.

That means he's still alive.

He is breathing again – while their hearts are still beating, hope is not lost.

--

**A/N:  
**Some explanation is probably needed.  
1 - In the 17th century, teen!Russia tried to attack China several times. China was more annoyed than anything. Then the ruler of Russia decided that diplomatic negotiations were in order. Cue embarassed Russia and mature!China.  
9 - In the RFSR, the only available car was the _Lada_. It wasn't exactly a muscle car, and there was a joke that ran like this:  
Why does a Lada have heated rear windows? - So your hands don't freeze when you push it.


	2. 11 to 20

**A/N: **The pairing for this page is marginally Russia/America (Except for number 18 *g*). It gets a little bloodier here, so be warned.

---

**11. Memory**

There are times when he forgets everything around him, only the next second matters, only the next breath. The past is as unclear as the future has always been, and there is only fog surrounding him and filling his mind. It is highly unpleasant.

However - perfect memory is far worse.

**12. Insanity**

You call me mad. Just because I think your flesh a canvas to my paintbrush.  
Just because I like to see those I love, destroyed. A symphony of broken fingers and torn skin and trickling, dripping, spilling red.

Da. I must clearly be insane to understand the beauty of imperfection.

**13. Misfortune**

He cannot remember when he was last lucky. His every step is haunted by misfortune.  
Superstitions do not matter, he is unlucky either way.

"Thirteen roses for you, Amerika."  
The silly child looks _afraid_. He snatches a rose, tears it to shreds.

Russia pales.  
No-one is immune to superstition.

**14. Smile**

He can feel his eyes start to burn even as the corners of his mouth curve upwards. If he smiles a little wider, maybe no-one will notice the terror in his gaze, and maybe then they will stay, for once.  
Smile. Just keep on smiling.  
Because you cannot scream.

**15. Silence**

Silence, stillness. Every word, every thought, has finally been swallowed by the snow.

His blue lips will not move for centuries to come, but still his chest rises and falls.

Around the isolating ocean of white, the world lies in shards, burning.

_Am I the only one who is left?_

**16. Questioning**

"I would like to know..." he murmurs into the mess of wheat-golden hair that's spilled on his shoulder, "I would like to know why you keep coming back for more if you hate me so much."  
America's reply is muffled, but it sounds suspiciously like "Fuck if I know."

**17. Blood**

He swallows, greedy mouthfuls of red that are sweet for the sugar, salty for the sea, bitter for the pollutants, irony for ore - and so very rich.  
He can feel-hear-see-smell-taste the blood, it's everywhere, and if it hurts America to lose it, he isn't showing it.

**18. Rainbow**

The cut-crystal glass breaks the light, a rainbow dancing on his lady's skin where heavy fabric doesn't cover it.  
"You will learn to enjoy champagne, and you will learn to endure powder."  
Her voice is determined.  
He raises his own glass.  
"I will try my very best, your majesty."

**19. Gray**  
There used to be oceans of color, of a single color, defining him. This color spelled his name and set a sign and let everyone _know. _It meant justice and injustice and fights and change. It was his new way.

That ended twenty years ago. Now, there is only gray.

**20. Fortitude**

It is a weight he has to bear.  
"Be brave. I know you can. You have to."  
His mother's words. Her last.  
That was hundreds of years ago. But he can still hear it, softly, in the thrumming of his pulse and the wind's whisper.  
_For you, I will be._

_---_

**A/N: **Explanations:  
13: While thirteen is America's bad luck number, an _even _number of flowers spells trouble with a capital "T" for any Russian.  
18: Russia's "lady" is, of course, Catherine The Great, who took great pains to "civilize" him. Powder here refers to the kind nobles used to put on their faces.  
20: Russia's mother is Kievan Rus', whom I think he fondly remembers in his _-erm-_ more lucid moments._  
_


	3. 21 to 30

**A/N: **Part 3 is here, and it is funny and depressing in equal is why I love Russia.

----

**21. Vacation**

He hadn't realized that there was a downside to heat.  
It was hot.  
It was five days before Orthodox Christmas, and was _hot_.  
America smiled, eyes radiant behind his fogged glasses.  
"So. You miss your snow? You like L.A.?"  
Russia's hand curled around America's right hip.  
He _did _like L.A..

**22. Mother Nature**

The one who gave birth to all of them also has the power to destroy them.  
As her blood is sucked away and burned, her bones are ground up, can one blame her if she strikes back with all of her might?  
We don't want children that can't play nice.

**23. Cat**

There have been many strange creatures in the Kreml over the decades, human and others, but a tiger is new. Russia blinks at the cub. It blinks back and stretches out a clumsy paw to brush his fingers. Smiling, he turns to his Prime Minister.  
"Will she be staying here?"

**24. No Time**

There is no time, there is never time for anything but a few fleeting touches between the fall and rise of kings and tsars and dictators. Centuries fly by like seconds, and every caress is over before it can start. Only in times of peace they can have each other.

**25. Trouble Lurking**

He never _meant _to be intimidating.  
He smiled - people scattered like a flock of birds. He laughed - everyone reached for their guns. If he could, he would choose company over loneliness. They saw bad omens in him, and his presence as foreboding. Was it his fault trouble kept following him?

**26. Tears**

She doesn't know what to do. The syringe is clenched in her hand, filled with liquid absolution, but somehow, she hesitates.  
This is no ordinary patient. She is almost inclined to...believe him.  
"Please, believe me! I used to be a great empire, once! Please!"  
Tears fall from his eyes.

**27. Foreign**

He has mastered the English language years ago. On hearing it, he knew it would be useful to learn. But when he registers the gleam in America's eyes as some traces of accent slip out after too many drinks, Russia makes an effort to forget some of the lessons again.

**28. Sorrow**

The pain makes his throat tight and his hands clench into fists, his eyes feel sore, his face wet and he wonders why it hurts so much.  
He has no reason to break down like this, right? She wasn't even one of his own.  
But she desperately wanted to be.

**29. Happiness**

He wraps the bandages around his arm, tightening the strips of linen and slowly stilling the blood that flows all the faster for the erratic hammering of his heart. The knife lies discarded by his bedside.  
The bandages are becoming scarce fast, but he's happier now than he's ever been.

**30. Under the Rain**

The rain is pouring. It seems like floodgates have been opened in the mercury sky, water spilling on the streets and the people as they scurry back into their houses.  
Rain - water, an infinity of water, everywhere.  
He stands, arms open, soaked and freezing.  
He waits.  
_Rain - wash my soul._

_----_

**A/N: **Explanations:  
23: Putin got a _tiger cub _for his birthday. Her name seems to be Mashenka.  
28: Catherine the Great again. She was actually German, but she wanted to become Russian. (I think she was awesome, does that show?)_  
_


	4. 31 to 40

**A/N: **Me? A commie? Really, what makes you think that? ... erm. Moving on. Here is the next batch, fresh from the factory.

**31. Flowers  
**A field, stretching far in every direction, yellow all around, brightening the day. He knows he can't stay here forever, he knows that all this splendour will whither and die come autumn, but he can keep a piece of the sunshine in his heart for when the snow comes back.

**32. Night  
**The calm before the storm – that's an expression everyone knows.  
But what about the calm after the storm? What about nights that are still and cold and black-blue, the air not thrumming with tension but drained of everything it once held?  
It's night.  
Russia is too tired to sleep.

**33. Expectations  
**He doesn't know what he expected, fear or hatred or forgiveness or something else. He gets none of the first, some of the second and maybe a hint of the third. But _something else _predominates in former - _former _- Prussia's gaze when they meet again twenty years after the chain reaction.

**34. Stars  
**They're white, colourless, he tries to tell himself. But there is a corner of his head, a number of his people, that would like to disagree. Old and young, they long for a past that has not been _all _bad. He can hear the shouting again.  
"Red! Red!" they scream.

**35. Hold My Hand  
**„Hold my hand," he says,"I will teach you."  
He has spoken these words countless times, since the first of his people laced knives to their boots and went to the frozen rivers. But as pale, strong fingers determinedly clasp his own, he knows that this time will be special.

**36. Precious Treasure  
**Are all rare things precious and all precious things rare?  
Diamonds are nothing but carbon, as are our bodies - blood, flesh and bone.  
Amber is nothing but resin, the blood of trees hardened by aeons of untold pressure.  
Lithuania's amber is anything but rare, but it is more than precious.

**37. Eyes  
**His eyes, wide, violet and surreal, are set in snowy skin and outlined with cast shadows, and if they looked closer before running away, they could see the spark of sunset-sunrise that means real happiness.

What good are windows to the soul when no one dares look through them?

**38. Abandoned  
**He has abandoned ideas, ideals, ideologies for the sake of _them_.  
For the sake of his soul, if he has one.  
For the sake of the world, if it isn't doomed already.  
For the sake of God.  
If He exists.  
If He _cares_.  
He has abandoned, for better or worse.

**39. Dreams  
**Once, I asked him what _his _dream was. He looked away, and whispered I would not like the answer.  
Oh, but I am terribly curious, you see.  
When I insisted on it, he finally answered.  
"I dream that you are _dead_ and _gone_, and can never hurt me again."  
Oh.

**40. Rated **

Rated as a threat. Rated as obsolete. Rated as functional. Overrated. X-rated.  
America loves nothing more than to rate, to define, to classify.  
Russia hates nothing more than being examined.  
He doesn't let himself be labeled.  
He doesn't make any sense.  
He's the biggest threat and the greatest fascination.

**A/N:  
**34: As a good Russia fan, of course you know what "Red Star" stands for.  
35: Who is this "Plushenko" you speak of? It could be _any_ ice-skater, really. (Oh, who am I kidding, of course it's him!)**  
**


End file.
